My Japanese Porcelain Doll
by Yuki Fuyumi
Summary: [For Subaru's birthday, OOC? --;; ] Seishirou has a gift for Subaru, and while he ponders the best way to deliver it, he stands observing an unknowing Subaru.


**My Japanese Porcelain Doll**   
  
_A/N_: So... Since I got no horribly bad feedback on _Kesshin - Resolve_, I thought I'd be adventurous and write another X-fic. This one is for Subaru's birthday, the 19th of February (if you haven't read Tokyo Babylon, where we find this out) and one of my shorter fics. I didn't feel like filling it with pointless stuff, which is why it is as short as it is. So as to not confuse you, I should point out that this is written through Seishirou's POV, though in third person, which is why Subaru is referred to as "it" and not by name. I wanted to emphasize the fact that we don't really see Seishirou really "seeing" Subaru as anything else but his possession until, well, X 16. -_-;; Poor Subaru.   
I'm not sure as to where I got this idea, but it seemed like an okay idea when I started on it, but I think in the end it's just upsetting. ...or something. Disturbing. Yeah, I think that's the word I'm looking for. -_-;;   
Other than that, I don't really have a lot to say. ...other than that the doll festival mentioned is on the 3rd of March, also referred to as the girls' day. The corresponding day for boys is on the 5th of May. You celebrate the doll festival by letting the daughter/s in the house take out their dolls and arrange them in a certain order, then you eat things like tempura and in some parts of Japan the daughters pair up the female dolls with the male ones, and let them stay beside each other through the night. Why would Seishirou make up something like that just to have a doll crafted? I don't know... He just seems like that kind of person where you can write pretty much anything about him, and he's still not really OOC, since we never get to know a whole lot about him... Which in itself makes him a pain to write, or at least that's the experience I have with that kind of characters... -_-;;   
  
_Warnings_: Some OOC, I suppose. Seishirou is one hard character to write. Probably no spoilers, though, well except for maybe some minor things that happened in Tokyo Babylon, but seeing as this is set maybe one or two years before the beginning of X, there won't be anything you don't already know. If you've been paying attention to X, that is. ^_~;;   
  
_Acknowledgements_: The usual people: **Lenn-neechan** and **Omichan**. ^_^   
And my fellow fangirls, **Anji**, **My** and **Ize**. Heh heeeeh.   
  
_Disclaimer_: Don't own, don't profit, don't sue. -_-;; ...please?   
  
**_My Japanese Porcelain Doll_**   
  
He carefully lifted the lid off the shoe box-sized carton in his arms. Looking down into it he watched its contents with admiration. On a bed of fresh cherry blossom petals lay a doll that was almost a foot tall, and its large glass eyes peered up at him, unseeing. He had had one of Japan's finest doll makers craft it for him with the excuse that soon it would be his daughter's birthday, and what better gift than a doll in time for the upcoming doll festival a couple of weeks away?     Studying the doll, he was satisfied to see that it had turned out the way he had wanted it. It was dressed in a simple white kimono with a wide lavender obi, its raven hair cut short — the way he had instructed — framing the white porcelain face with lips painted pink and large, green eyes of glass. He touched the smooth, cool cheeks almost lovingly with the tip of his index finger in a gesture of, for him, unusual gentleness before putting the lid back on. Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out the ribbon he had bought earlier that day and tied a bow around the box. Placing the white carton box next to him where he stood, he turned to look across the street to the building on the other side. From his perch on the roof of the house, he only had to strain his vision just so to be able to look into the rooms of the impersonal apartment complex. Though people generally didn't interest him enough for him to peek into their homes, there was one person in particular who kept intriguing him to the point that he had a recurring need to check on them on a regular basis. And ah, there they were now, stepping into their sparsely furnished living quarters.     Though the doll in the box beside him was beautiful, there was one that, in his eyes, far surpassed it. It was his favorite possession, that doll he had shaped with his own two hands.     Taking off his sunglasses and placing them in his breast pocket, he leaned against the roof's railing and watched with a small smile as the object of his attention moved into its bedroom with the floor-to-ceiling windows. It discarded its white coat and hanged it over the back of the single chair. Mismatched eyes followed each movement as the person lit the lone lamp and then bent down to check the answering machine. The figure plopped down onto the bed by the windows, reaching for an ashtray that sat on the wooden floor.     It truly was beautiful, with its sickly pale skin that seemed to almost glow as the lights from the lamp and the street outside reflected off it. Each soft, flowing motion it performed, as it lit up and slowly exhaled gray smoke, was hypnotizing. He could watch it for hours on end, had been watching it for years, and yet never grew tired of those transparent green eyes.     The doll reached down to the floor again, putting out its cigarette before going about undressing, making its way towards the bathroom. He didn't have much of a problem waiting; if one was fond of observing one would also have to be tolerant when it came to waiting. Glancing down at the box sitting beside him another smile crept upon him. Daughter, indeed. It was a rather fine gesture, to offer a doll to keep his own one company, if he did say so himself. Pulling out a cigarette, he settled back into waiting.     Just as he was about to reach down and tug the bow into place, the person he had been studying came walking back into the bedroom, drying its hair with a towel. He watched in something close to rapt fascination as the figure slumped back down onto the bed, dropping the white fabric to the floor. As it reached for yet another of those white sticks, he dropped his own, still watching, trying to calculate when the best moment to deliver the gift would come. For some reason he came to think of the year they had spent together and how much his doll had changed. How much he had changed it. Funny, how much you can do with a piece of clay if you just put your mind to it. And his creation was far from finished. There were some things yet that he wanted to do, feelings he wanted to see reactions to, situations he wanted to test. It intrigued and puzzled him how he could never quite predict the reactions of his own creation, and perhaps that was the exact reason as to why he was standing there now and had come back to that place to watch the doll innumerable times before.     Though he usually watched it go about doing things in its apartment, there were times when he followed it out on its jobs, watching in secret admiration as he saw its powers grow, little by little. Some times he could feel excitement creeping upon him as he imagined what it would be like next time he would show himself to the younger onmyouji, how much stronger his doll would be, what new spells it might have learned. It was a secret pleasure of his, this testing of abilities, just as his testing to see what reactions he could get out of the doll, and whether or not it would be as he had anticipated. He often managed to guess correctly, but the times he didn't it gave him a strange almost perverse pleasure in knowing that this creature he had formed, though with its own set of emotions and reactions, responded so wholeheartedly at every provocation he presented to it. He liked to believe that that alone was enough to have him coming back, again and again, only to test something new. Deep down, though, he felt he knew that it wasn't because of those reactions that he came back, but rather because of that strange surge of _something_ inside him every time he saw the pain and hurt shining out at him from behind those glasslike eyes.     And speaking of hurt and pain, he could see the doll now rubbing harshly at its face before it reached towards the side of the bed, picking something up. Though he was on the other side of the street, he didn't need to be closer to know what it was. He knew that it kept a small photo from those days, when he had played the kind veterinarian, something to look at perhaps to help preserve the memory of something else, something precious. He had no idea what, and wasn't about to ask, either, but it intrigued him, just as everything else about the doll seemed to do. What could it possibly find in something that would remind it of the painful events that happened shortly after that photo was taken? Did it perhaps find some sense of happiness in watching those three smiles? No, probably not. If anything, he had learned that consciously or not his doll was something of an emotional masochist. Not that it bothered him; on the contrary, it gave him even more pleasure in how he had only to give a small piece, no more than a suggestion of something that would hurt, and then watch as the doll twisted it around and around until that suggestion turned back to harm it.     That was something else that fascinated him. How could someone who wanted so badly to believe that what they were doing was the right thing be so intent on hurting themselves? He didn't understand, and that constant curiosity kept bringing him back with a desire to know more. He was nothing if not curious. There had always been that strange delight in learning new things that had always urged him on. He supposed it was something he had inherited from his mother, but to be truthful, the origins of that personality streak didn't bother him enough to try and figure it out. He had something to observe that gave him constant amusement and gave him something to do when he had nothing better to occupy himself with, and that, to him, was enough.     He watched impassively as the doll dropped the photo back to the floor, seemingly letting it fall from shaking hands. Then those hands clenched into fists, and for a moment he considered reaching out with his power to tug at the bond between them, just to see its reaction when the inverted pentagrams would flare up. But he quickly decided against, with the motivation that today, at least, he would leave it alone. Tomorrow morning was an entirely different matter, though.     It had begun to mar itself again. Short fingernails dug into the skin of arms and torso, tearing at the healing cuts already there. He wasn't sure if he approved of that or not, but then again, if it made matters more interesting, who was he to object? Even though its behavior irked him somewhat, it served to make things more complicated in the doll's head, as it seemed to contribute to its already twisted way of perceiving events around it. So once more, who was he to protest? It only added more flavor to the small game they were playing.     He put his hands into his coat's pockets as it seemed the doll was either satisfied or fed up with what it had been doing. Rising to turn the lamp off, it flopped onto the bed, pulling the covers up around it. Soon, it would be asleep, and then he would go there, and leave the small gift for it to find in the morning. He watched as it turned over restlessly for several long minutes before settling down, the covers thrown off halfway and hanging off the edge of the mattress.     Picking up the carton, he moved at a leisurely pace towards the other building, taking each step up to the right floor with slow ease, seemingly in no hurry to arrive. Once outside the door, he paused. Not because he wasn't sure of which door was the right one — he had paid his doll several visits before, both noticed and unnoticed — but because he quickly considered where the best place to leave the gift would be. Here, by the door? But then again, there were days when it never left its apartment, simply sitting on its bed gazing out the large windows as if the sky held all answers. Perhaps he should leave it inside, then.     Easily slipping into the dark apartment, seeing as the door had been left unlocked, he allowed himself to shake his head just so. If his doll really was so intent on keeping him away, why did it make such a basic mistake as leaving its door open? Yet another of those things he would most probably never understand, even if it would be explained to him. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he stepped out of his shoes before moving further into the small, bare rooms he didn't quite think to call a home. He knew his way as if he had been the one living there for the past few years, having watched from afar so many times.     As he stepped around the corner leading to the bedroom, he stopped, the carton in his arms held lovingly close as he watched with a small tug on his lips.     How beautiful the doll looked where it lay halfway tangled in the white covers, pale limbs marred with red tucked close to its torso in hurt, as if trying to feel safe. Its pretty eyes were clenched shut in pained sleep, its lips twisted horribly, yet in his eyes it could never be ugly. In his eyes it was so very near perfection, because it held all opposites, hurt and serenity, love and hate, hope and despair, life and death, all there in the red lines crossing through the white of tired skin. It was so very close to being complete, being perfect, that he didn't know if he should weep or laugh or simply push on further, just to test and see what would happen. And perhaps one day, he would keep the silent promise that hung between them. But not tonight. Tonight he was content with just sitting on the edge of the thick, western mattress, barely touching that soft skin as he traced the inverted pentagram on the hand closest to him, feeling strangely reassured that the doll was his.     Once he deemed he had taken enough time to study it up close, he rose off its bed and sat on his knees beside the piece of furniture, pulling out a small card and a pen from his coat's inner pocket. Once having written the greeting with almost despicably neat calligraphy, he tucked it under the bow before placing the white box next to the bed, tugging at the pale pink ribbon one last time. He reached to the bed, taking one soft, thin hand in his and bent down to brush his lips against its back, smiling in satisfaction as the marks flared up. Placing the hand back upon the covers, he whispered soft words forming birthday wishes, and not moments later was he out the door, a cigarette already lit and placed between his lips, each of his steps leading him further away.     Perhaps, next year, he would visit when his doll was awake. But for now, it would be enough to know that the simple words on the small card would be enough to fluster the object of his attentions. Stopping nearly in mid-step, he turned to just barely look back over his shoulder. And then it seemed the darkness had swallowed him up, with nothing left behind than a small swirl of cherry blossoms and the faintest sound of chimes, together with those last few words that had spilled forth like crystal water from his lips,     "Until next year then, Subarukun."   
  


_**~finis~**_

  


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...and that's that. Well, it really _is_ one of my shortest fics ever, but... Ah, well. As I said at the top, I didn't want to put in a whole lot of pointless drabble just to make it fill a certain number of pages. It felt like an okay place to end it, so...   
  
Anyway, reviews are always nice. Tell me how I'm doing? Since I'm in the process of planning an AU fic I kind of need to know if people think my way of writing X is okay or not... But no flames. They don't really help me to write better, so... Constructive critisism, on the other hand, helps a lot, seeing as I'm European, but not British, so my English isn't really that great... Well, thank you for reading, though. ^_^ And perhaps I'll see you soon again. ^___^   
  



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